


The doctor is in

by PlainJane



Series: Doctors and detectives [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Consensual, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omegaverse, Virgin Sherlock, ethical behaviour, sex therapist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2086671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a young alpha with an aversion to his cycle. John is a gender medicine specialist. Nothing could possibly go wrong...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The doctor is in

**Author's Note:**

> Random plot bunny bit me last night. This was quick and dirty, so give me shout if you find boo-boos :) Not even sure what this is, really, but enjoy it anyway!

“Dr. Watson? Your three o’clock is here."

“Thank you, Lucy.”

John released the button on the intercom and straightened the piles on his desk. Most of it was correspondence — which he hated dealing with — but there were some unfinished notes from his last patient. He tucked them into a drawer to be handed over for the transcriptionist at the end of the day.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure who he was expecting. The woman who’d rung his office for the appointment had said only that it was an urgent matter. She’d made it very clear to Lucy that her employer was a government official of some note.

John had been happy to clear space in his schedule, but he had to admit to at least a little trepidation. A high-profile patient could be just the thing for his growing practice, as he was still fairly new. Alternatively, it could be devastating if a well-connected client were to be dissatisfied with their treatment.

He stood as the door opened for a tall, distinguished gentleman in a conservative three-piece suit. The man walked toward John, an umbrella hooked over one arm.

“Dr. Watson?”

“Yes,” John said with a pleasant smile, which was not returned. He extended his hand; the tall man regarded it for a moment before finally accepting the handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr…”

“Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes. Welcome. Please take a seat anywhere you feel comfortable.”

Holmes arched a brow and scanned the room with a critical eye. He moved stiffly in the direction of the leather wingback chair nearest the window. He settled himself there, smoothing his trousers as he waited for John to take a seat on the settee next to him.

John opened a fresh notebook and wrote the date and his new client’s name. “So Mr. Holmes, what brings you here today?”

“Please,” the man drawled impatiently. “Can we dispense with the usual inanities?”

“Uh, well, yes. Yeah. I suppose,” John cocked his head with a grin. “Right down to business. All right.” John took a deep breath and launched into the fact-finding portion of the appointment. “You are an alpha and unbonded. Are you sexually active, and if so, how long have you — ?”

A fine-boned hand lifted, bringing a halt to John’s introductory questions. He sputtered to a stop, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“I am here on behalf of my younger brother.”

“Oh. OH. Oh, I see,” John started. “Right. Okay. And your brother’s name?”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock.” John wrote the unusual name with a nod. “And he is how old?”

“Twenty-one.”

“So not a puberty issue, then.”

“Not as such,” Mr. Holmes agreed coldly.

“Alpha, beta or omega?”

“Alpha.”

“Mhmm. And is he bonded?”

“No, and that is the primary reason for my visit.”

“I see. Is there an issue preventing a bond?”

“No. Unless you count truculence as an issue.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“My brother is refusing to deal with his ruts.”

“Oh, right,” John set his notebook down. “Well, that isn’t entirely uncommon.”

“Perhaps not,” Holmes snapped. “But turning to heroin to cope with his unmet biological needs is, I would wager, hardly the norm.”

“God, no,” John said, leaning in. “Look, Mr. Holmes, perhaps I’m not the best medical professional to help your brother. I’m a gender medicine specialist and a sex therapist. It sounds as though your brother requires treatment for addiction.”

“He isn’t addicted yet, thank god,” Holmes sighed. “He is stubborn and petulant, but he is my brother. I worry about him. Constantly.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” John agreed.

“I understand that there are new pharmaceutical options available to help with the alpha cycle?”

“There are,” John said cheerfully. “One of them is particularly good — an injection given once every three months. It’s nearly as effective for alphas as the oral heat suppressants are for omegas.”

“The oral heat suppressants for omegas can also mask their scent. Is that what you use?”

“I — well, yes,” John replied awkwardly. He wasn’t comfortable discussing his own reproductive health with clients. “Sorry, how did you know?”

“You were thoroughly vetted, doctor.”

“Right,” John said. “Anyway, the alpha meds will do the same.”

“I see. Any side effects?”

“None,” John said. “The only catch is that the alpha would have at least one rut per year.”

Mr. Holmes was scowling now.

“But one out of four is a significant improvement for an alpha who isn’t ready for or interested in mating.”

“But still one too many for my brother.”

“Ah.” John studied his client for a moment. “You knew this already, didn’t you?”

Holmes nodded grimly. “I’d hoped there might be something my own research had missed, but it appears there is nothing for it. My brother is going to have to cope with at least one rut per annum.” He stood and rearranged the umbrella over his arm. “And that is where you come in, Dr. Watson.”

“Of course.” John stood, too. “Is his rut due soon?”

“Imminently.”

“I can clear some time for him tomorrow, if that suits.”

“Excellent,” Holmes replied. “My assistant will telephone shortly to confirm the time.”

“That’s fine,” John said, walking with Holmes toward the door. “One question, Mr. Holmes. Is your brother aware of your efforts on his behalf?”

“He is, though he has been very vocal in his dissent.”

“I see. Then I’m not sure how much I will be able to do for him. I can’t treat an unwilling patient.”

“What can you do for Sherlock, should I persuade him to accept your help?”

“Well, if he is interested in a pharmaceutical solution, I’ll get him started on the Androtheryn to get his cycle balanced. It won’t prevent this rut, but it will dull the impact somewhat. Then I can provide counselling to cope with the emotional strain of the rut, as it sounds as though that might be traumatic for him,” John started. “In addition, I can provide him with some guidance on dealing with his symptoms and, if he chooses, arrange a space for him in one of the surrogacy clinics. I’ll do everything I can to get him through this.”

Holmes was watching him with an intense scrutiny the likes of which John had never experienced. He tried not to flinch as the man watched him and, finally, nodded. John had the strangest feeling that he had just gained some kind of approval.

“Very well,” Holmes said briskly. He offered his own hand this time, and John took it with a feeling of relief. Whoever the man was, John had managed to pass his test. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“Happy to help.”

_____________________

“Sorry, I’m a bit late.” John burst into his office, closing the door firmly behind him. “My last appointment ran over.”

He made his way across the room, taking in his new patient. The lean young man with dark curls had already settled himself on the settee — stretching out from one end to the other, head propped against the chenille cushion, with his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Icy blue-green eyes flicked in John’s direction as he dropped into the leather wingback and collected the notebook Lucy had left on the table nearby for him. He was about to roll into his usual bedside manner persona, when he finally stopped to take a good look at Sherlock Holmes.

His breath caught in his chest as he regarded the long, angular face with the sharp cheekbones and feline eyes. The full lips were slightly pursed as the young man stared at him, clearly considering something.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“S-sorry?” John stammered.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“How could you possibly know about — ?”

“I didn’t know. I noticed.”

John slumped back into his chair. His patient was smiling now — Sherlock Holmes was very, very pleased with himself.

“But how did you…was it your brother?”

“My brother tells me only what he thinks I need to know. I didn’t even know your name until I got here.”

“Then how? Not even Lucy knows about my military service.”

“No?”

“No,” John confirmed. “I’ve found people are less comfortable revealing their most intimate secrets to someone who’s only just back from a war zone.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t just medical personnel.”

“My medical training did come in handy, but you’re right: I was in the thick of the fighting.”

“Fascinating. Perhaps that’s why my brother was so tight-lipped about you when he informed me that I was either going to attend this appointment or be transported to rehab.” Sherlock dipped his chin. “Go on then. Aren’t you going to ask me what it was I noticed?”

“I…well, yes.”

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s quite bad when you walk, but you don’t use your stick for short distances.” Sherlock nodded in the direction of John’s desk, where his abandoned cane was propped against the wall. “You can forget about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John started as the pen dropped from his nerveless fingers. He knew his mouth was hanging open.

“Well?”

“That was…amazing.”

The young man’s haughty expression faded, quickly giving way to something like puzzlement. “Do you think so?”

“Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“’Piss off’!”

John chuckled, pleased to see his patient smiling as well. “I promise I won’t start with that.”

“I should hope not, Dr. Watson.”

“It’s John, please. May I call you Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you like.”

“Let’s begin with the most pressing question then: Are you willing to be here?”

“Willing?”

“If you are doing this just to avoid rehab or if you’ve been otherwise coerced into seeing me — ”

“Dr. Wat — John,” Sherlock started patiently. “I am an alpha. I have been struggling to ignore my biology and the distraction of my body’s urges for three years. If there is anything you can do to help minimize this, well, I suppose I would be…grateful.”

John smirked; clearly gratitude did not come easily to the younger Holmes. “All right, then,” he said. He retrieved his pen and clicked it. “Let’s get started.”

“Fine.”

“When was your first rut?”

“Eighteen.”

“And did you seek an omega?”

“No.”

“Beta?”

“No.”

“Were you sexually active prior to your first rut?”

“No.”

“Have you been sexually active since?”

“No.”

“No?” John repeated.

“No!”

“Not even with yourself.”

The lovely high cheekbones became stained with pink. Sherlock directed his gaze to the ceiling tiles.

“Sherlock,” John said gently. “Do you masturbate?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything!”

“It will help me understand how you feel about sex, and about your rut.”

“I’ve already told you _that_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “I. Hate. It.”

“Yes, I understand,” John continued, his tone even. “But what I need to understand is why. Outside of your rut, do you ever feel sexual desire?”

The pink tinge deepened, but Sherlock merely bit his lip.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, all right? Yes, fine, occasionally I have felt…something.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. Not really my area.”

“Boyfriend, then?”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

“How often would you say you have experienced sexual desire for someone?”

“I don’t…”

“Yes?”

“It isn’t that I _can’t_ _feel_ it,” Sherlock started, looking entirely mortified. “It’s that I _don’t_ _entertain_ it.”

“I see,” John nodded, scribbling some more. “Go on.”

“I don’t want to be bothered with all of it,” Sherlock went on, one hand flapping along with his words. “It’s messy and inconvenient and entirely distracting. If I allowed blood flow to be redirected to my penis in those quantities on a regular basis, my mind would suffer. And my mind is the only thing that matters.”

John pursed his lips to avoid smiling. Wouldn’t do to allow the cheeky lad to know John found him quite charming. “Fair enough. And what about emotional connections?”

“Emotiona — are you quite serious?” Sherlock propped up on his elbows to give John an utterly withering look. “You of all people surely must be aware of the quagmire of misery sentiment leads to.”

“Misery?” John’s brow furrowed. “That’s how you see it?”

“Of _course_ that’s how I see it! One minute it’s all ‘Oh, I love you Bernard!’ ‘And I love you, Constance.’ And the next minute Bernard is chopping Constance into small pieces and feeding them to their pet Schnauzer!”

John stopped writing, trying hard not to let his alarm show on his face.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Sherlock groused, throwing himself back into the couch with a pout. “I’m not a psychopath.”

“N-no,” John stammered. “Of course not.”

Sherlock gave an aggrieved sigh. “I work as a consultant for the Met. Whenever the good detectives of Scotland Yard are out of their depth — which is pretty much always — they call me.”

John released the breath he’d been holding. “Oh. Right. Okay.”

“You can speak with DI Lestrade if you’re that worried. My brother has probably already sent the number over with my other details.”

John tried to sidestep his patient’s unusual career path. “So you don’t feel love. Or affection. Or friendship. Ever?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I have the capacity, I suppose, I simply choose not to. It’s easier this way.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Well, it isn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “You’re not going to wax rhapsodic on the glories of love, are you? I mean a single, never-bonded omega with trust issues surely wouldn’t be in a position to lecture me about keeping people at a distance.”

John pursed his lips. “I have people in my life. People I care about, who also care about me.”

“And yet you live alone. You spend your evenings here, working on patient charts. You haven’t had a date since you returned from military service…” Sherlock’s words tapered off and his face grew solemn. “I’ve made you angry.”

“Well done,” John said coldly. “Very astute. Spot on.”

“That was…not good.”

John’s ire ebbed as he watched the confusion play out across the young man’s features. Sherlock truly didn’t understand how rude he’d been. “It was,” John confirmed gently. “Bit not good.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled. “I don’t…”

“It’s fine,” John said, his professional smile back in place. “It’s all fine. Let’s get back to you, shall we?”

Sherlock nodded glumly.

“So you avoid — what did you call it?”

“Sentiment.”

“Right. Because…”

“It’s a liability. A chemical defect. A disadvantage.”

“I see.”

“You disapprove.”

“Not really my business to approve or disapprove,” John assured him. “Only to help you come to terms with what we can’t change.”

“My rut.”

“Exactly. So…how have you been coping with your ruts thus far?”

“For the first two years, I drank and made use of an omega sex doll. It was unsatisfactory.”

“And more recently you’ve resorted to heroin.”

“It dampens the urge to the point where I can sleep through most of my rut,” Sherlock said frankly. “Occasionally I have to…you know. But it’s far more manageable than without.”

“I see.”

“And you think one of the new alpha suppressants is going to be of some help?”

“Would one rut a year be better than four?”

“Obviously.”

“Fine, then we’ll start there. Androtheryn is very safe and it won’t affect fertility — ”

“That is hardly a concern.”

“Right, fair enough, but should that ever change — ”

“It won’t.”

“Anyway, it won’t interfere with sperm production,” John continued. “There won’t be any significant side effects, save for a moderation of your rut symptoms, a masking of your own scent and a reduction in your own susceptibility to potential mates.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to smell you, for instance.”

John’s head snapped up. “What do you mean ‘smell me?’”

“Simple process of elimination,” Sherlock started, eyeing John critically. “Your scent is very neutral, but almost too chemical. An untrained nose would call it beta; post-andropause omega at very best, though given your age that is unlikely. You’re what — twenty-eight?”

“Thirty.”

Sherlock hummed an acknowledgment of this information. “I am, of course, more aware of the slight traces of sweet citrus that have been growing since you joined me in your office.” Sherlock considered this. “An alpha in rut can trigger a heat, even in a suppressed omega.”

“It is incredibly rare,” John said, feeling a bit panicked. He took a deep breath and tried very hard to ignore the scent radiating in his direction from his patient. It was earthy. Like rain in a meadow. He tried to remember the last time he’d shared his heat with an alpha in rut — god, it had been almost six years.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “But it can happen.”

“W-we should probably get you started with your first jab.”

John stood and limped over to the examination table in the corner of his office. He took out the tray Lucy had prepared for him. He gloved up and prepped the syringe, unaware that his patient had moved until he heard the deep voice right behind him.

“Where does this go in?”

“S-sorry?” John turned, very nearly fumbling the needle in his hand.

“The jab. Intravenous, intramuscular…”

“Upper arm,” John managed, trying to lick his very dry lips. He was painfully aware of his patient’s keen eyes focused on him. “You should sit.”

Sherlock sighed and jumped up on the table. He looked down at his well-tailored button down shirt. “I don’t suppose I’ll get the sleeve rolled up high enough, will I?”

John shook his head, keeping his attention on the injection and trying not to look as Sherlock bared his upper body.

“There,” Sherlock said blandly, seemingly unaware of the picture he made sitting shirtless in John’s pleasantly grey office.

Sherlock’s skin was fair and smooth, marked only occasionally by fine moles. The dusting of dark hair over his chest was lighter than John had seen on other alphas, but then Sherlock was still young. He was indeed as lean as John would have thought, though with surprising muscular definition.

The fact was that Sherlock Holmes was an attractive, intriguing and brilliant alpha, and he might have made someone a fine mate. But, then, that wasn’t what he wanted.

John shook off his reverie and the lingering effects of Sherlock’s pre-rut scent as he rubbed at the alpha’s deltoid with an alcohol swab.

“As you may be aware, this first injection will start the process of regulating your cycles, but won’t prevent your coming rut. However it will blunt the symptoms and make it a bit easier to manage.”

“Fine.”

“Little pinch.”

Sherlock snorted a little. “Why do doctors and nurses always say that?”

“Dunno. It’s what they tell us to say.”

“It doesn’t feel like a pinch. It feels precisely like what it is: a sharp instrument penetrating your flesh.”

John licked his lips again. “Duly noted. I’ll alert the BMA.” He completed the injection and pressed at the site with a clean swab.

Sherlock tilted his head in John’s direction. There was barely twelve inches of space between them. John glanced up from the injection site and met his patient’s eyes.

“So…that’s it?” Sherlock’s voice was rich and warm.

“That’s it,” John concurred, trying to maintain his equilibrium. He took two steps back to place the syringe in the medical waste receptacle and snapped his gloves off. “As I said, this first one will just help to get you levelled off. But, on the plus side, you won’t have to have another rut for almost twelve months.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned up. He watched John carefully as he tidied up. “That’s…good.”

“Good.” John nodded and waited for Sherlock to re-dress. “Now there are a few other things we should discuss at your next appointment. How long until your rut sets in?”

“Five days. Maybe a week.”

“I’ll have Lucy set something up for two days from now. Is Thursday okay?”

“Fine. Will we discuss the…mechanics…of coping with my rut?”

John cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. We can. That is up to you, but it’s an option I can offer.”

“Really?”

“No reason for anyone to endure a rut or a heat alone these days. There are safe, medically supervised facilities where you can have someone take you through it safely.”

“I see.”

Sherlock was staring again in a way that made John blush as he hadn’t since he was a teenager.

“And if I want you to do…that?” Sherlock asked.

“To — oh, refer you to a clinic? Absolutely. Not a problem. We can talk about that on Thursday and maybe we can talk abou — ”

John was silenced and utterly thrown off guard as his young patient pressed him into the wall and claimed his mouth. John protested, trying to speak against Sherlock’s very insistent lips, but to no avail.

For a moment — just the fluttering of a heart long left to its own devices — John gave in. He leaned into the touch of long fingers holding him fast by his upper arms and gently kneading the flesh there. He surrendered to the firm pressure of Sherlock’s mouth, which was far softer than John would have imagined.

The kiss was inelegant (clearly Sherlock hadn’t been lying about his lack of experience), but nevertheless captivating in its artlessness. Too much tongue, but sweet, minty breath. A clack of teeth, but an almost desperate searching.

John drifted in a sea of his own desire, just long enough for Sherlock to press a muscular thigh against his pelvis. The touch of the firm alpha body against his stirring cock was enough to jolt him back to his senses.

He shoved against Sherlock’s chest. Then he shoved harder. Finally, he hooked a foot behind the taller man’s ankle and heaved. Sherlock fell backward and landed on the floor with a thud.

“What are you doing?” John asked gruffly.

“I just thought…if you were going to see me through a rut…”

“See you — Sherlock I am a sex _therapist_. I’m a doctor. The people at the clinics who can help you are sex _surrogates_. For me to even consider what you are asking would be professional misconduct.”

Sherlock’s face clouded over and he scrambled to his feet.

“Sherlock, wait. Let’s talk about this.”

John reached for Sherlock, but he was already backing away.

“No, please. I’m sorry. Wait!”

The door slammed into the wall as Sherlock threw it open and fled.

___________________

John rolled over in his narrow bed, trying to find a comfortable position. He was a little feverish and had been lethargic all day. A touch of flu, perhaps.

He dragged himself from his bed and padded to his small kitchen. With one hand, he switched the kettle on; with the other, he reached for his favourite mug.

The cat that had been haunting his kitchen window ledge was back. John smiled and tapped on the glass. The tabby meowed at him and slinked away into the dark.

With the kettle boiled and some ginger tea made to settle his stomach, John was about to curl up on the sofa when the doorbell rang.

“What in the world…?” He glanced at the watch he had forgotten to remove before climbing into bed. It was half two in the morning.

The bell rang again and John groaned. If he didn’t answer it, his neighbours would be banging on the walls. He was on his way to the intercom when there was the sound of a fist against the door.

John paused, a little concerned now that whoever was calling on him had simply bypassed the building’s security. He stepped over to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. He withdrew his service revolver (which he was not meant to have) and tucked it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

The banging on the door continued — and, as predicted, banging on the wall he shared with Mrs. Highbridge began.

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Watson? I’ve been asked by Mycroft Holmes to come and fetch you. You’re to make a house call.”

“Sorry?”

“Dr. Watson, please open the door.”

John cracked the door, leaving the chain in place. He peered out at the large man in a severe black suit standing in the corridor. “Who are you?”

“I work for Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The older brother of your patient, Sherlock Holmes. You met several days ago.”

“Yes, but…I’m really not feeling very well. And I don’t think I’m Sherlock’s doctor anymore.” John shifted uncomfortably. “He missed his follow-up appointment yesterday.”

“I’ve been asked to tell you that it was a misunderstanding and to insist that you accompany me to the Holmes residence.”

“Insist?”

“Yes, sir.”

John studied the spook outside his door before sighing. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll come down.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As promised, John was out on the pavement within the allotted time. He hadn’t bothered to tidy up, but had simply pulled his clothes from that day back on. He was led to a black saloon with tinted windows, and seated alone in the back. His companion disappeared into the front seat beside the driver, separated from John by a smoked glass partition.

John dozed, arms wrapped around his upset stomach. He was shaken awake by his escort in front of a pleasant but relatively unassuming townhouse.

“Dr. Watson, if you will follow me.”

“Sure. Why not.”

Inside, John was greeted by a weary looking, but still impeccably turned out, Mycroft Holmes.

“Doctor.”

“Mr. Holmes,” John said. “What is all this?”

“I’m afraid my brother’s rut has hit him a bit early and he isn’t responding very well.”

“But we started him on the hormones,” John puzzled. “That should have made the symptoms much milder.”

Mycroft gestured for John to follow him into the sitting room. He sat on the sofa and left the chair for John. “I fear his contact with you has had some unforeseen consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“Are you feeling quite well, doctor?”

“Well, no, actually. I’ve got a touch of flu.”

“Flu. You’re certain of that.”

“I don’t see what else it can — oh, god.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, crossing his legs. “Yes, I’m afraid that was the conclusion I came to as well. It seems my brother’s rut has managed to undo the work of your suppressants and stimulate a heat. And you, in turn, have imprinted on my brother.”

“Mr. Holmes, please understand that this was entirely unexpected. I could not have predicted it — ”

“Doctor, please. Calm yourself.” Mycroft waved a hand. “When I chose you, it was not only because of your reputation as a fine physician, but because of your reputation as a soldier. I knew that you would be able to deal with whatever nonsense my brother could throw at you.”

“This is not nonsense,” John replied irritably, one hand clutching his now-cramping belly. “Mr. Holmes, I am deeply sorry for what has happened, but I have to get somewhere safe. Immediately.”

“Or you could stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

Mycroft straightened in his seat. “I mean you could stay here and mate with my brother.”

“What you’re suggesting would cost me my license.”

“No one ever need know.”

“Your brother would know.”

“My brother has been calling your name for twelve hours,” Mycroft replied with a wry smile. “I don’t think you have to worry about his consent or compliance.”

“I would know.”

“And how do you feel about it?”

“He’s a patient.”

“’First, do no harm…’”

“Fuck off.” John stood and started pacing.

“He needs you and you need him.”

“It’s unethical.”

“It’s practical.”

“I am a sex therapist, not a surrogate!”

“Well, that isn’t entirely true, is it?”

John froze, his back to his host.

“Come now, doctor. You didn’t think I wouldn’t find that?”

“How?” John turned slowly to face Mycroft Holmes. “Who _are_ you?”

“It’s hardly an unusual story. As an enlistee, you trained as a military sex surrogate. Then you went on to complete medical school.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. “That is none of your business.”

“No. But it is a fact of your past. An admirable fact. Sex surrogacy is an honourable and courageous profession, particularly in the service.”

“Damn right it is.”

“So…here we are. You have done this before. You have the knowledge and the experience and the skill to bring Sherlock’s suffering to an end and to take care of your own needs at the same time. And I am telling you _no one will ever know_.”

John was panting now. He could smell alpha in the house. Ripe, fertile alpha. There was a shout from upstairs and a shattering of something — china perhaps.

“I had tea taken up earlier,” Mycroft said calmly. “Clearly that wasn’t what he wanted.”

_“JOHN!!!!!!”_

Sherlock’s voice echoed through the house and rattled off the windows. John began to shake, his body responding to the call of an alpha in rut. He shed his jacket.

“You promise me,” John said firmly. “No one finds out.”

Mycroft stood, his smile detached but somehow trustworthy. “I give you my word. My people and I will depart this house and not return until you contact me. We will keep watch and provide any supplies as needed. I will take care of notifying your office that you have come down with influenza and I will ensure that my brother’s name never appears in your clinic’s files.”

John was already unbuttoning his shirt.

“G-get out,” he rasped. “No time left.”

Mycroft made his way to the door where an attractive beta was waiting with his coat. He turned back before stepping through the front door.

“Dr. Watson, you have my sincere thanks.”

John grunted, no longer capable of coherent speech. He was vaguely aware of the front door closing and the sound of the bolt sliding into place.

Safe. They were safe now.

He tore his shirt free and threw it to the ground with his jacket. His mind was flooding with sensory input as his heat began to take over. Smell of fertile alpha. Everywhere. Sound of potential mate. Mate in pain.

John mewled a little as he tugged down his trousers and pants, now dampened by his body’s response to the alpha’s call. With the quick removal of socks and shoes, he was now naked.

He struggled to gather his thoughts, recalling the things he knew he must do to calm and care for his alpha.

His alpha.

Another distressed moan reached him; John broke for the stairs at a run.

Upstairs, he quickly located the room where Sherlock had been locked in. He sucked in several deep breaths and then turned the key that had been left in the lock. He pushed the door wide and was immediately assaulted by the overwhelming pungency of Sherlock’s scent.

He moaned, drawing the attention of the naked alpha. John admired the line of Sherlock’s toned body, the curve of his buttocks, every muscle in his back defined beneath the sheen of sweat on his skin.

His alpha was beautiful. Powerful. Potent.

John noted vaguely that the room had been ransacked during Sherlock’s pre-rut. It was clear he’d been scenting the space and preparing a nest: the bed had been reimagined, completely swaddled in lengths of fabric and Sherlock’s own clothing. Equally clear was that Sherlock hadn’t taken kindly to being kept from his chosen omega. Books had been thrown everywhere, furniture upended.

Sherlock peered over one shoulder, nostrils flared as he caught John’s scent. He spun and stalked toward the door, eyes narrowed and feral.

John held his ground, standing for his alpha and waiting to be scented. Sherlock reached him in three long strides and stopped just shy of touching him. Sherlock bent his head to John’s scent gland and snuffled appreciatively. John did likewise, eyes rolling back in his head with the rush of endorphins that flooded his system along with Sherlock’s heady aroma.

Sherlock was moving, tracing the lines of John’s body with his nose, searching out the places where John would smell strongest: beneath his arms and…

“Jesus!”

John’s legs nearly gave way as Sherlock dropped to his knees and unceremoniously pressed his face into the springy hair at John’s crotch. Sherlock nuzzled and sniffed and hummed his approval; John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders to keep his balance.

“Good,” Sherlock grunted at last, clambering to his feet. He stared at John for a moment — with perhaps a trace of clarity beneath the fog of his rut — before bending to kiss him.

It was hard and messy, much as the first had been, but John was now too far gone himself to be much bothered with technique. They would have time for that later. John sucked at Sherlock’s tongue and drew him in, moaning into his alpha’s mouth with raw need.

Fingers were probing the slick now dripping from his cleft and down over his thighs. John’s retreating conscious mind registered that it was too soon for that. It was too fast.

Sherlock had not pursued him. His alpha needed the chase.

John broke free from Sherlock’s hold on his shoulders and pushed the alpha away from him. Sherlock looked confused and hurt, but John did not waste time. He sprinted for the stairs.

There was a guttural cry behind him, spurring John on. He rushed down the steps and into the main rooms of the townhouse’s first floor. His heart pounded with the sound of Sherlock’s heavy tread on the stairs behind him.

The chase was exhilarating for both alpha and omega. It heightened desire and led to a much more satisfying — and more subdued — mating.

John dodged furniture in the sitting room, catching a glimpse of his alpha in his peripheral vision. Sherlock shouted again, something that sounded like John’s name. John slipped out through the double glass doors connecting the sitting room with the kitchen via the conservatory.

Sherlock gained on John, his longer legs giving him an advantage. They raced through the kitchen, bare feet slipping some on the highly polished floor. John skidded into a cabinet narrowly avoiding Sherlock’s grasping fingers as he regained his footing. Sherlock snarled and resumed pursuit, out through the dining room and back around to the foyer. John took the stairs two at a time.

John had nearly reached the safety of Sherlock’s room when the alpha caught him. Sherlock tackled him, pitching them both to the carpeted floor. John sighed — he couldn’t help it. The feeling of Sherlock’s body pressing into his back was, perhaps, the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced.

Sherlock growled, a warning to the omega not to move or to attempt to escape again. John knew he could ignore it and continue resisting, but he had no will to. He was ready. He wanted.

Perspiration-slicked skin pressed and slid. Fingers teased and dug in. Lips gently nipped and tasted. Sherlock slithered over John’s body, mouthing his way over his omega, muttering his praise for his potential mate into John’s flesh.

“Clever. So clever. So kind.,” he groaned, tracing his tongue around the edge of John’s shoulder blade. “Lovely. Good. _Mine_.”

John’s hips arched off the floor as Sherlock’s cock rubbed over his bottom. He was leaking profusely now, his passage loosened and ready. “SHERLOCK!”

The alpha hummed his approval and pressed his swollen shaft into John’s soft rump. “Mine,” he repeated needlessly. He licked and nuzzled at John’s neck before finally sinking his teeth into the nape.

The claiming bite had been made; John went limp.

His cock throbbed with need and his entire body was pliant. This was his alpha. His alpha. His own. Sherlock would mount him, and pleasure him and service him, just as he would service his alpha’s rut. They belonged to each other.

Still swimming in a wash of pheromones, John offered no resistance as he was lifted from the floor and swung up into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock did not stumble with the additional weight; adrenaline had given him strength beyond the capacity of his slender frame. John clung to him and murmured praise of his own.

“Brilliant. So strong. _Mine_ …”

Sherlock lifted the makeshift curtain surrounding the bed/nest and deposited John gently in the centre of the mattress. John settled on his knees, his back to Sherlock. He watched his mate still standing on the floor. He looked frightened.

Of course. His first mating. Uncertainty. John smiled and reached back for him.

“I need you,” he whispered.

Sherlock stumbled up onto the mattress, crawling in behind John and straddling John’s legs with his own. He hesitated there until John took each of his hands. John pulled Sherlock’s arms around his torso and drew him in until they were pressed together as they had been on the floor — not a hint of daylight between them.

John used his hands to guide Sherlock’s over his body. Together they explored every inch of him. He led Sherlock to smooth over his thighs and play with the coarse hair there, and then to caress his hips and up over his ribcage. He took Sherlock’s elegant fingers and placed them over his nipples, nudging until Sherlock got the idea. John gasped and moaned as his alpha pinched and teased the sensitive buds.

Sherlock placed his open mouth over the place on the side of John’s neck where he would mark, were they going to bond. He laved the flesh as John writhed against him.

“More. Please!”

Sherlock ground his huge, hot cock into John’s bum. John moaned and began to slide his hands down, down…

John grasped at the seeking fingers and directed them to his own tumescent flesh. He wrapped Sherlock around him with a grunt of satisfaction and began to teach his alpha how to bring him pleasure. Where to rub and tug and glide. When to pause and when to go…

“FASTER!”

They undulated together, lost in the rhythm of the ancient dance. John turned his head, suddenly desperate to taste Sherlock again. They met over his shoulder, each man moaning his helplessness. They kissed over and over and over, Sherlock beginning to get the hang of it as he responded to John’s practiced advances.

John started to shudder as his first orgasm approached. He clutched at Sherlock’s hand on his omega cock and held it over the crown, pulsing gently as he crested the first wave.

He shouted Sherlock’s name as he spent himself over the bedclothes. His own hands, like the rest of him, went limp; Sherlock held him steady and continued to stroke him until his orgasm shivered to completion.

John allowed himself to be draped forward, his wrecked body collapsing into the soft nest of bedclothes. There was something blue by his face — a scarf perhaps. John sniffed, delighted to find it reeking of his mate. He buried his nose in it and huffed as the alpha stretched out over his back.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, but he was hesitant. He knew, roughly, what he needed. He probed between John’s arse cheeks with tentative fingers.

“Yes,” John groaned, trying to encourage his inexperienced young mate. “Good. More.”

Finally regaining some control of his large muscle groups, John reached back and pulled the plump mounds of his bottom apart, revealing his saturated rim. Sherlock took this direction well, quickly taking hold of himself and rubbing the head of his cock over the swollen entrance.

John pushed back into the lovely sensation, allowing the head of Sherlock’s prick to slip into place. “Oh GOD!!!”

Sherlock grunted and began to press forward. John grasped his hips firmly and held him there.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Slowly.”

Sherlock nodded into John’s shoulder, where his brow had come to rest. Inch by inch, he eased his massive cock inside John’s willing body. As far advanced as his heat was now, John required no other preparation.

Sherlock was shaking, making what almost sounded like whimpering noises. His control was very nearly gone. John sighed with relief as Sherlock’s half-formed knot bumped up against him. Almost immediately, Sherlock began to withdraw. And plunge back in.

“CHRIST!”

John braced himself against the mattress and pulled his legs wider apart. He bucked up into the ruthless pace his alpha set and scrabbled for one of Sherlock’s hands to hold on to. The slap of flesh on flesh echoed in the quiet room.

Sherlock, for his part, was once more mouthing along John’s neck. He was practising for the bond bite.

It did not take long before Sherlock was grinding his knot into the sensitive flesh of John’s anus. He needed to knot to come, and he was eager to do both. John rotated his hips, angling and stretching to allow the penetration. At length, with a triumphant ‘squelch’ Sherlock’s knot popped through the tight ring of muscle.

Sherlock slammed his hips into John’s body twice more. With a hoarse shout, he came.

John’s own body responded to the flooding of his womb; he shot another load into the bedding beneath them. His body milked Sherlock with each contraction, causing the younger man to moan weakly. Sherlock collapsed on top of John, who quickly rolled them to their sides to wait out being joined together. He wrapped Sherlock’s arm about his waist and allowed himself to doze — he could already hear the alpha snoring behind him.

They’d both need their rest.

________________________

John finished brushing his teeth and swished his mouth out gratefully. After five days without a shower or any other form of basic hygiene, he was relishing the feeling of being clean. He straightened his shirt collar, thankful that Mycroft’s people had thought to provide him with a change of clothes from home.

The knock at the door was faint; John wasn’t surprised by the uncertainty. Sherlock had been avoiding him since the end of his rut, fleeing the room as soon as they’d woken on the final morning. John had been surprised to feel so bereft.

“Come in,” he said pleasantly.

The door opened slowly and Sherlock appeared. “I wanted to say…”

“Yes?” John turned to face him.

“I…thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John replied, his smile a bit crooked.

“And I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Just a crazy pheromone misfire.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Sherlock’s face fell and he dropped his gaze to regard his shoes. John tucked a finger beneath his chin and lifted gently. Sherlock allowed it, his expression wary.

“But I really enjoyed it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock repeated, his expression suddenly much brighter. “Well, good. I’m glad.”

“And you?” John asked gently. “This was your first experience. Your first shared rut. Was it…okay?”

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened. “It was…good. Yes. Very good.”

“Good,” John chuckled.

“I-I realize that this was beyond the usual scope of your practice,” Sherlock started. “I’m sorry to have put you in this position. I won’t trouble you at your clinic again. I’ll have my file transferred to another physician.”

“I think your brother’s already taken care of that. But — ”

“Yes?”

“I was…” John bit his lip. “I was looking forward to seeing you again. Not necessarily as my patient.”

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment. “I tried to bite you.”

“I know.”

“You punched me.”

“It’s a fairly effective method for keeping an alpha in rut from attempting a bond.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.” John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it. “Sherlock, this happened far too quickly. And you are very young. And you have been so opposed to the idea of love and sex until now. You weren’t ready. I couldn’t allow you to do that to yourself.”

“Oh.”

“But the truth is,” John went on, leaning in a little. “The truth is I _would_ consider bonding with you.”

It seemed to John that a light had been turned on behind Sherlock’s eyes. He beamed down at John with a completely unguarded expression.

“You…would. Really? Why?”

John chuckled again. “Because you are remarkable, and handsome, and funny. You make me feel alive again, in a way I haven’t for months.”

“You make me feel…”

“Yes?”

“Safe.”

John stretched up and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “That is an excellent beginning.”

“Would we — we wouldn’t stop taking our suppressants, though.”

“I would prefer not to stop taking mine. You can make the decision for yourself.”

“Right.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “But we’d still…”

“Oh, yes. If that is something you’d like, I’d be very amenable,” John agreed quickly. “Sex outside of oestrus can be every bit as wonderful.”

“Can it, indeed?” Sherlock quirked a brow.

“Yup. I’d be happy to show you, if you’d like.”

“Yes,” Sherlock squeaked. “Please.”

John moved in for another kiss; Sherlock met him halfway, eyes wide open. When they parted, John smiled at him.

“Let’s get out of here. I’m famished.”

Sherlock turned and tugged on John’s hand, leading him from the bathroom out into the corridor. “Perhaps you could come with me to crime scenes. You’re a doctor. You’ve been to war. Seen lots of injuries; violent deaths.”

“Yes.”

“Trouble, too.”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs and looked at John, smirking.

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh, god, yes.”


End file.
